


In my shoes, a walking sleep (and my youth I pray to keep)

by wajjs



Series: in divine presence [1]
Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alpha Slade Wilson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cults, Drug-Induced Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega Jason Todd, flimsy excuse of a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24382189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: Chained and naked on top of the pedestal, he's the most enticing type of offering. The most promising, too.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Series: in divine presence [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778017
Comments: 22
Kudos: 375





	In my shoes, a walking sleep (and my youth I pray to keep)

**Author's Note:**

> ok so it's been a while since i actively tried to write anything remotely explicit and i think i failed terribly!!! but who cares!! also this is an attempt at omegaverse.
> 
> i added as many warning tags as i could think of, but if anyone thinks i should add another one, lemme know
> 
> now i'm just gonna hurl this in here so i can stop agonizing over it, ok,

_In my shoes, a walking sleep_

_(And my youth I pray to keep)_

In his head everything's swimming. His eyelids feel too heavy and he can't remember why, he can't remember how, he can't remember -

In his head everything is swimming. His tongue feels useless inside his mouth and his ears feel filled with cotton.

Soft smoke in the air is the only thing he can truly recognize. He tries to put all of his focus on it, on how it makes him feel weightless outside while inside he's made of lead. He breathes in softly, slowly, shyly, trying to keep his senses on that sharp pang of awareness telling him: don't let this win over.

There are hands on his head, massaging his skull. Like they are washing sweat and dirt out of his hair. He cannot think of a single reason he'd need to be cleaned, he cannot remember what he was doing before - 

A burst of light behind his eyelids. Sun high over his head, a voice complaining in his ear, a weapon in the steady grip of his arm. No green. All grey with cement. Old brutalist buildings surviving the passage of time.

Distantly, he hears people speaking. Their hands are on him, they are taking and giving and rubbing lotions onto his skin. The attention is so unusual it almost throws him fully back into consciousness. A subtle pinch on a pressure point leaves him all soft and pliant again.

_Offering,_ they are saying. _Reunited,_ they repeat. _Destiny,_ they chant.

_Our gods are among us!_

He blacks out after that.

First he registers the warmth of the room. Sticky sweet warmth that brings a layer of sweat upon his skin, or perhaps that is the fever rising to full completion inside.

But next is the awareness of his own body, of how… stiff it is. Locked in position. Chained. The unforgiving edge of some sort of stone digging into his bent knees, the muscles of his thighs starting to complain because of the strain. This time when he blinks his eyes _do_ open, but all he sees is a wide room with no decoration on its stone walls, no windows or doors in sight. All the light comes from the myriad of candles strewn all around him, tall iron torches lit with oil that gives off a scent he remembers while burning.

He knows this scent. He knows it, the memory is lodged inside his brain. But there is no place to the memory. No recollection of _how_ he got it. Like he's simply known it all his life.

A low chuckle makes him snap his head towards one of the shadowed walls, the one right in front of him. It's followed by the sound of chains dragging on the rough floor, moving, heavy with weight. He tries to move, too, attempts to stand up, correct his position and his heart begins running a marathon when he finds he can't.

He's been forced to his knees, on top of a damn pedestal, and his wrists are cuffed to his ankles, leaving his torso at an angle. That's not the worst of it, though. No, what makes him grow desperate is the metal bar between his knees, keeping them separated, thighs wide open. No clothes on to keep himself covered.

The last words he remembers hearing begin to rattle off over and over in his head. The heat, too, now it starts to make itself more present, to make itself impossible to ignore. He's burning up, all hot and wet inside, and he lets out a shaky breath, swallowing his embarrassment when he finally acknowledges the steady dripping between his legs.

No one was supposed to know. No one was supposed to _see_.

"Aren't you full of surprises, kid," the voice precedes the sound of chains, one that gets louder, louder, till it drowns out the shrillness of his thoughts.

Even before the light of the candles fully dissipates the shadows, there is no doubt.

"Slade," he whispers, truly starts struggling against his bounds in earnest. The sweetness of the scent permeating the room barely changes with the smell of distress. "What do you _want._ "

"I'm chained as well, Jason," Slade speaks easily, voice rolling above all as he steps into the light, and it is true: there are manacles on his wrists and ankles, all of them connected to long heavy chains that disappear into the darkness of the room. "Have been for a couple of days."

"Sure," he tries not to let out the whine building up at the back of his throat and he almost loses. He has to bite his tongue to tamper it down when Slade rests his eye on the mess of dripping slick between his thighs. He hates how humiliated he feels. "You would've escaped by now if that were true."

Slade snorts, leans in closer as he rests his hands on the edges of the pedestal, looming and big over him. "I've tried, kid," he says, the corner of his mouth curling, "nothing breaks these chains. And now, there's _you._ You're the first real change I've seen here. And what a change you are."

"Shut up," he snarls but it holds no significance, not when he's like this, and not when Slade is as naked as he is. Because honestly, their captors should really work on their subtlety. Though what's the importance of being subtle when apparently they are something that's worse for their prisoners: effective.

The other hums, doesn't back off an inch, does a show of dragging his nose along the length of Jason's throat before he's talking again.

"You've done a remarkable job of fooling everyone," Slade's breathing is a little heavier now, strained, and Jason's mind in going into overdrive - they can't be affected at the same time, they can't be affected _by each other,_ they can't, they can't, "I would've never suspected you are-"

" _Don't,_ " he doesn't plead, he is unable to, but this is as close as he'll ever be.

"Jason," Slade brings an unclear meaning to his name, "there's certainly no shame in it."

He opens his mouth to snap back, say something snarky, smart or downright mean but, but, but. A shaky exhale comes out, feverish and with a sharp note of impatience. This close, Slade is a line of warmth and power above him; this close the smell of the oil is completely overridden by each other, making his mouth water with desire. It is wrong, this is wrong, because there is nothing here but the influence of a drug, one that is affecting them both, or perhaps it's only inducing his heat… and in turn he himself is the detonator to Slade's self control.

It is clear he's not the only one realizing this. Even if he's yet to move away, Jason opens his eyes to see Slade straining against his bindings, trying to rip them off again - to no avail. The sight doesn't help his useless attempts at quelling the hellfire inside. There's the undeniable sensation of blood rushing to his cheeks, his face all red with a deep blush. A poorly aborted whimper tumbles out of his lips, muscles of his thighs clenching in his _need_ to hide, conceal, just how _wet_ he is.

Of course. Of course that only earns him Slade's undivided attention.

"You're not helping your case," his voice is low, almost menacing, chased by a rumble coming from deep within his chest. "You got no idea how tempting you are, kid."

"It's," Jason tries to breathe again, takes in gulps of air that only manage to fill his lungs with Slade's scent, "it's that - that oil. I - I, _Slade, please._ "

His thoughts are becoming a little watery. He's getting dizzy. His limbs feel numb. All he can chant inside his head is that this is _bad,_ this is bad, he's not exactly sure what he's asking for, he's not sure of himself, even, he just knows - he needs - he needs to calm down the heat. The pulsating, constricting heat. Wet and demanding. Overbearing. He needs - he _needs…_

"Jason," Slade snaps, renewing his tugging against the chains but that only pulls him closer until their bodies are completely aligned. It would only take one movement - one thrust of his hips to, to, " _Jason,_ fight it. You can do it, kid," he doesn't even know what's making him say that, what's compelling him to try and, and what? Help? "You're stronger than this."

They need to get as far away from each other as possible. Before something happens. Something that will be a bitch to get undone.

"Can't," Jason groans this time, chest damn near glowing with his blush and Slade's just now noticing the thin bands around Jason's biceps, gold, pure gold, completing the picture he makes of a damn offering, "been. been like this since before. 'S worse."

"Before?," he allows himself one second of weakness, presses his lips to the line of a strong collarbone - tastes the oil on the skin. _Fuck._ That explains things.

"Slade," the name is too close to a plea for comfort. "I think. I think they'll let us out. If. If."

Slade doesn't listen anymore. He _can't._ Because Jason smells so perfect to him, both soothing and enticing to his senses, stirring up age old needs, instinctual ones, the type neither of them can ignore any longer.

Their last coherent thoughts are similar: 

_I'll kill them for this._

Jason's moan echoes through the room the moment he feels Slade's big and calloused hand pressing firmly against his cunt. It's a blessing, the sensation of touch, and his breathing loses all rhythm even when Slade's only stroking, not spreading, not pushing. He trembles a little, closes his eyes because he cannot control the way he'll answer if he keeps seeing the hunger in the other's face.

It's not enough though. Not nearly. Inside there's pain beginning to build up the longer he's without what he needs. Distantly, he hates himself. Hates that he's been reduced to this sorry state by drugs, hates that he can't fight back like he always does. It's distant, though, too distant, and any attempt at holding onto the hate fails when Slade's hand feels _oh so good_ rubbing against his skin.

At least he's got enough control not to be begging for more. Even when he's dying to.

The contact leaves him and he snaps his eyes open in confusion. Why did it stop, why did Slade stop, what did he do-

With how he's angled atop the pedestal, he has to strain his neck to look past his torso, and even then he only manages to see white hair, damp with sweat, between his legs. His breathing hitches at the same time he feels hot breath against his skin, making him twitch.

"You're so smooth here," Slade says, barely above a whisper, voice reverential. His hands are closed around Jason's thighs, thumbs digging into the muscle, "and pink."

"Don't just-," he starts to reply when his sentence ends up cut short by an honest whine when Slade leans in closer, drags his tongue flat against his slit. A shiver overtakes him, mouth falling open as Slade moves his hands from his thighs, using his fingers to spread him wide open and -

Gasping, Jason snaps his hips once as Slade slides his tongue into him, licks all over inside, drinks him up. He wants to be embarrassed by the breathless sounds he's letting out, wants to be ashamed of how much he's reacting to all of this, except now Slade is curling his tongue and his mind blanks out completely. 

Pleasure builds up in waves that gain energy with each movement of that tongue inside, each time it slides out to tease, to taste, before delving back in, deep and thorough. His hands close around his own ankles, resting more of his weight against them, pushing out his hips more. The change in angle has them both reacting, because like this he's easier to reach, he's so deliciously open.

Jason breathes Slade's name into sound, lets it tumble into past the candlelight and into the darkness, and it's such a final thing. Marking them both with it's effectiveness.

One of Slade's hands wraps around Jason's dick, hard and leaking right above his slit, gripping the base, easily covering almost all of its length completely, too. The thumb of Slade's other hand pushes inside at the same time as his tongue does, the spread far from one that burns but enough of a promise to give Jason that final push over the edge.

His head lolls backwards, the long column of his throat exposed as his eyelids flutter shut, lashes wet and shiny with unshed tears. His mouth is open, enticingly so, but no sound comes out because air is coiling tight, tight, tight within his lungs, the muscles of his stomach flutter - Slade gives one squeeze to his cock and he's coming undone in almost absolute silence, knees digging into the ledge of the stone, hips snapping and rolling in waves and waves of pleasure, brought to the point of nearly _too much_ with every reassuring lick to his overly sensitive slit.

There's release, too, all over his stomach, quickly cooling down and getting sticky with his sweat but he doesn't care, he can't, not when the fever inside has barely receded, only fell back an inch, still so strong and maddening. Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees movement and that is almost enough to make him snap out of this trance of heat and desire. He only sees the flickering of a flame, a candle burning down to its last stages, past it only shadows that grow thicker and thicker. But-

"You are a damn treasure, aren't you, boy," Slade speaks with his mouth still lingering over his cunt, making him shiver, pushing out a soft whimper, "could eat you out _for days._ "

Jason smiles a little at that, lets his teeth dig into his lower lip as Slade stands up once more, mouth and beard damp with his slick. The sight makes something in him let loose, relaxing only a little now that he's left his claim, that the other can still taste him on his tongue.

Slade does actually return the smile, tongue darting out to lick the wetness from his lips, standing tall and imposing. His cock is hard and, with how they are positioned, pressing fully against Jason's cunt, the thickness of it fitting like a puzzle piece in the slit. Jason's arms begin to shake a little.

"You gonna fuck me, old man?," he tries to go for confident though he falls short when he's the perfect picture of desire.

Slade gives his hips one cautionary squeeze. This, this is a nice little reprieve they both get from the fever overtaking them. The scent of the oil is getting thicker and close to choking in the form of mist around them.

"Might lose control here," Slade moves closer, chains rattling, and his body is large enough to shield from sight the front of Jason's own. The mist is bringing new clouds over his judgement, pushing down all logic and training and instead aiding the rise of all the base instincts. The ones that are always lurking under everything else.

The same ones that tell him Jason is a dream made true, one that fits perfectly under his hands, that tastes so good he could fill himself for days on his release alone. Jason seems to be made for him. And he's been made for Jason in return.

"'s alright," Jason tries to lean into Slade, struggles with his pose and his bindings. His eyelids are losing an unfair battle, nearly closing as he sighs. Slade leans in to catch that sigh in his mouth. "Can take it. Gonna be here to see it through."

Slade freezes for the long expanse of a second. His eye closes as well, he breathes in the air Jason lets out. It's a damn shame their union is happening like this. With control ripped out of their hands, with no bed under them and no time to do it _right._ He tells himself new opportunities will come by and then he will show Jason the lengths of his experience, he will have him crying out his name with just his hands - it's a damn shame, that he can't do things the way he likes best.

Jason's hips twitch in his grip and he lowers his head to press his mouth right at the base of the throat, just below the beginning of a jagged scar. Slade moves one hand to his cock, strokes himself as many times as he dares to, before he's angling his hips, guiding himself so that the tip of his dick is pressing against the wet entrance.

They both breathe in, once, hearts beating wildly but nearly in unison. And then, Slade lifts his head to bring his lips upon Jason's, demanding and bruising, swallowing in Jason's hitched gasp as he puts all his strength into the movement of his hips, thrusting forward, stretching Jason till he's taken him to the hilt.

The rattle of the chains in nearly enough of a sound to completely dampen their own noises, Slade's grunt, Jason's breathy whine as he pulls out, the squelch of slick between them so loud Jason has the urge to shield his face. He can't, he can't cover himself, he can't do _anything,_ it's frustrating, making him desperate, putting him on edge.

His thighs burn but it can't compare to the fulfilling burn of the stretch between his legs, of Slade filling him completely, splitting him open like no toy ever could. Moisture gathers in his eyes, he tries to control his breathing, his sounds, doesn't know how to let go. His voice is trapped in his throat, making everything feel tighter, and he clenches down on empty when Slade pulls out, whine nearly silent before he's moving back in.

The room might as well not exist, surrounded by mist and their scents as they are, with the flickering light of candles to burn them bright in yellows and oranges. Jason can't think past a chant of _more, more, Slade, good, more,_ and that inferno inside him is reaching a new tipping point, climbing to exhilarating new heights.

Jason's burning up, hot and wet and pliant, filled to the brim and taken, utterly and completely taken by no other than Slade. But it makes the hell within calm down, turns away the pain clamping up his guts, and he gives himself to it fully, gasps and chokes on moans with each snap of powerful hips.

Slade is a beast of a man. Big, deliriously big, and relentless in his actions. He groans, losing his hold on himself, lets his grip turn harmful as he grabs Jason by his sides, pulls him closer, knees jutting out from the sharp edge of the stone pedestal. It doesn't matter, it doesn't, not when they are like this, completing and completed by each other. A ridiculous notion he'd hate any other day. One that feels so true.

"Come on," he speaks but the words are coming from something rotten deep inside, malicious and dangerous, "ain't you a bird? _Sing._ "

With the definite snap of his hips, he opens his mouth to bite down on the flesh of the other's chest, the fullness of muscle spilling into his mouth as he pierces through the skin till he's got the taste of blood heavy on his tongue. It brings the desired effect, the beautiful sound of a broken yet loud whine, chased on the tail end by a moan, and he keeps biting, keeps _devouring,_ consuming the marvelous body beneath his.

The tight and wet heat around his cock milks him for all he's worth. He keeps moving, feeding off the newly found sounds coming from the other, basking in the shyness of the voice, the _unused_ aspect to it. It's all well rewarded, Slade's hand closing around the other's dick, spreading the slickness all over its length, moving quickly, with sureness. He squeezes down around the base and the perfect, so perfect _omega_ lets out the most beautiful of cries he's ever heard in his long life.

If only he could get rid of that stupid bar between the omega's legs, then he could truly throw those strong thighs over his shoulders, fold him in half, _make_ him feel the sheer strength behind every movement. He makes do. After all, this one will be _his._

They are both getting closer, it can be felt in the crackling energy between them. Energy that grows, and grows and - it snaps, coiled too tight and caving under pressure, Jason's voice half strangled as he moans, as he whines, loud and raw like he's never let himself be before, not when it comes to this, not like this. Every point of contact feels alight in a myriad of flames, Slade's mouth upon Jason's skin is both heaven and hell, and then, and then-

" _Mine,_ " Slade breathes the concept into existence, moves one hand from Jason's hips to the back of his head, " _mine,_ " he snarls, instinct and something _else_ blooming alive underneath it all, and he's vicious when he closes his mouth right in the juncture of neck and shoulder, bites down down down till the smooth skin gives way and he stakes his final claim.

Jason shouts, then, shouts, shudders, and he's squeezing Slade so tight they are both seeing stars. His eyes are wide open and he's feeling the finality of the bonding taking place, something that etches with iron claws into the vanishing red of his soul, rooting itself there, impossible to rip off without losing himself in the process. But on top of everything is the crackling of an energy unknown to him, one that gives him the force to break the shackles of his wrists, lets him throw himself into Slade's wide chest. 

He's nearly blind with it, with the energy, and he too lowers his head, tugs on Slade's hair, tries to get his fill of _touching_ when he places his claim, skin and flesh giving way to his bite. He tastes blood and desire, the perfection of it, and their bond is still on its birth when Slade snarls, thrusts deep inside till the swell of his knot catches, locking them together. The release is hot inside him, filling him so much, threatening to be too much, and drunk on the sensation he reaches his climax too, spills over and just, falls.

"Fuck," Slade's voice is rough, spent, and Jason agrees. The fever, that itch, is finally receding. Their thoughts are returning to them. " _Fuck._ "

Jason snorts, drunk on pleasure and the feeling of completion set deep in his bones. He presses his lips upon the mark, and, shit, shit, shit, they've both - they've both-

But Slade's tensing in their embrace, the two of them still locked together. The sensation of danger, he doesn't know if it's one he gets on his own or if it's one that comes from the fresh nature of the bond.

Lifting his head, he notices that the mist is dissipating, and so are the shadows that had previously clung with such tenacity to the room. His heart drops.

They are not alone. They are not alone, and their most intimate moments have not only been forced, but, but, _violated._

They are surrounded, surrounded by who knows how many dressed in large cloaks and with strange masks covering their faces. One of them steps out from the group, in their hands some sort of sphere, and they slowly pronounce words in a language Jason doesn't remember.

The chains containing Slade begin rattling again, and this time they both fight against them. One breaks under their combined strength, but they don't get further than that when suddenly everything goes dark.

  
  


Jason comes to in a different, much smaller, room. There's a window near the roof letting in natural sunlight. He's sore between his legs, he feels tender there, strangely aware of, of.

He sits up slowly, letting out no sound, surprised to find himself alone. From the cot he studies everything he can see, detects no obvious camera though that doesn't mean there isn't one. At least he's dressed this time, though the clothes aren't really his own. He doesn't want to think of where or who they came from.

In the room there's nothing else in sight but his cot. When he goes to the door, it is unlocked.

This suits him just fine. He's got a whole lotta answers he needs, and a bunch of assholes to fight.

  
  


Slade sees him roughly at the same time Jason breaks one of the cultists' neck. He hadn't planned on killing them, but. But he can't forgive what they did. To him. To the two of them. What they made them do.

It's good that Slade thinks in the exact same terms. He'd run into better luck, though, in his wake he found the room where they had stashed their gear. Instead of going through the compound in thin pants and a loose open vest, Slade had his suit on, and all his precious weapons. Though not his mask.

"Good," he says, nodding towards Jason, the line of his shoulders softening, "saves me the trouble of finding you."

"Where's my stuff," Jason grunts, dropping the body in his hands and stepping over it to stand by Slade's side.

It makes the other smile, a barely there twitch of his lips, and together they retrace Slade's path back into the room he'd found shortly after waking. Once he has his own clothes on, his guns and - and his helmet, Jason feels settled inside, less exposed, somehow, though nothing will wash away the feeling of being humiliated. Of being _seen._ That's what fueling his anger. 

They make quick work of the rest of the cultists, combing the building as thoroughly as they can. Once they are done, they will blow it up. Leave nothing behind.

In the last room, the same one of their bonding, they find the one who had stepped out of the bunch, had said the words. They don't look surprised to see them, they don't look worried they have a sword and a gun aimed at their face.

"You better tell us what we need to know," Jason barks out, Slade stays silent but mirrors him perfectly.

"Everything," they say, holding out an old looking book to the two of them like an offering, "everything is here. All you need. All you wonder."

"You better not be lying," Slade adds then, slower and menacing, "even after we kill you, if you're lying, we'll make you pay for it. _All_ of you. You'll know the true meaning of hell."

The cultist looks at them and smiles. They seem proud of what they've done.

"I would be blessed to be visited by my gods again," their voice holds pure certainty, "just like I'm blessed now that you're walking these lands. Just like my brothers and sisters were, when you've brought them into death's embrace."

"You're fucking nuts," Jason's grip on his gun never wavers. "We are no fucking gods."

"It's all here," the cultist leaves the book at their feet, kneels before them. "It's all here."

The hole of a well placed bullet adorns nicely the space between eyebrows in the cultist's face.

The building burning down to the ground makes for a stunning sight.

Jason sits on the ledge of a roof not too far, book on his lap, and he starts going through the old and yellowed pages. It's all in ancient greek, well, what he can decipher at first sight. There are other alphabets too, cuneiform ones, older and rougher, harder to translate. Far from impossible.

Slade's still standing by his side.

"Thought you'd be on the first thing that'd take you away from here," he hums, closing the book and looking at the flames consuming everything.

"It's not as simple anymore," Slade replies with ease, "not with our updated situation."

"Listen," he suddenly feels restless. He jumps to his feet, keeps the book safely tucked under his arm, "this, this _mating_ thing, it doesn't really have to. To mean anything."

Slade fixes his stare on him. They both have their masks on now, hiding their faces from the world. Yet guessing expressions isn't too hard.

"Doesn't it?," he asks, moving closer, and something through the bond _tugs._

"We - we did it under less than ideal circumstances and-"

"Yes, Jason," Slade says, just a little bit condescending, "we were _forced_ into it. But it's real, it took hold. This isn't something you can simply wish away."

"I know that, alright! I just," he huffs, biting his lip, and turns to the side, listening to the scream of sirens getting closer and closer. Too late, though. The building is basically burnt down to the ground. "I didn't think you'd want to actually acknowledge it."

"Well," with a sigh, he begins walking to the opposing ledge of the roof, knowing Jason's following, "you're not exactly the worst outcome to a forced mating. And we have more pressing matters to solve."

"Right," Jason swallows, feels heat on his cheeks, tries to go for a different approach, " _gods._ As if those even exist."

Slade snorts.

"Don't be so sure about that, kid. You might be completely wrong."


End file.
